


Letters

by Immy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immy/pseuds/Immy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John forgot his phone at the flat, so Sherlock found a different way to contact him while he is at his sister's house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters

John tapped his fingers on the desk in his sister’s living room. Time alone meant time to do something semi-productive or at least enjoyable. Sadly, he had forgotten his phone at the flat before rushing out to catch the train in time. Sherlock must have noticed this because a few days after arriving at Harry’s house a letter arrived for him. It was a handwritten letter from Sherlock, telling him that he found his phone on his chair and placed it in his room and would contact him though paper and pen until he returned the next month. This surprised John a bit, but he rather liked it. Sherlock’s neat, slanted handwriting in black ink was comforting.

John did not even know where to start today. He could not think of anything interesting or useful to say. He wondered if Sherlock simply skipped past all the boring parts of his letters or if he cared about his ramblings about his family. He was used to being able to text Sherlock what he needed to tell him and then receive a reply within a few seconds or a minute. He wanted to make the paper and postage count. He looked down at the page and exhaled deeply before writing a few sentences and then scrapping the page for a third time.

*****

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table holding a dropper and a test tube as carefully as he could. He delicately squeezed the dropper, letting one drop of its contents form a drop at then end. He moved the dropper to the tube and –

“Sherlock! There’s another letter for you!” Sherlock dropped the tube and the dropper onto the table and rushed downstairs as quickly as he could while trying not to look rushed. Mrs. Hudson smiled up at him from the bottom of the stairs holing out one white envelope. He gave her a tight smile and took the letter. He walked swiftly back up the stairs and ripped open the paper coating that stopped him from seeing what John had to say to him. He stood in the middle of the sitting room, his eyes flashing across the page as quickly as they could manage. When he finished he sighed and placed the letter delicately on the table before snatching it up again and reading it once more. He finally stopped reading when he smelt something peculiar. He turned to see that a small fire had stated on the table. He rolled his eyes and stuffed the letter into his pocket as he reached for the fire extinguisher.

*****

Sherlock ripped up the piece of paper he had just been writing on and threw it over his shoulder. He reached into the drawer, where he put all the letters John wrote him, and read through the most recent one. He carefully grazed over the bits about Harry’s recovery and his mum’s stupid new bird that his dad is planning to let loose when she goes curling with her friends. Finally, he got to the part he wanted to read. One little sentence that boiled down to “I miss you.” Of course it did not say that one the page, but the sentence reeked with those three words. Just a little ink on the page about things not being like at the flat and how he wished he could just get back to normal life. He reread the sentence countless times. He thought of them day and night for the past three days, trying to unravel it. And that’s all it could mean, he thought. John missed him.

No. That could not be it. He was simply implying that his sister is getting tiresome and he does not like sleeping in an unfamiliar bed for a long period. Sherlock folded the paper and placed it with the others, then went to lay on the couch and think.

*****

John pushed open the door to 221b, pulling his case behind him. “Sherlock, I’m back early!” he called as he trudged up the stairs. “Harry had to go out-of-town and – oh, you’re not home. Of course. Well, hello empty flat, nice to see you again.” John realized that he was talking to an empty room and stopped his yammering. He looked around the room to see ripped and crumpled pieces and scraps of paper everywhere.

“Look at this bloody mess,” he mumbled. He placed his case beside the door and picked up one of the crumpled papers and opened it up. If there was anything written on this paper, John would not have been able to tell. Every part of it was full of black ick scribbles. He tossed it into the trash bin and picked up a ripped piece of paper.

“Dear Jh -,” was all that was legible 

“I got a case from -,” said the next. John continued to open papers and read little notes.

“It’s quite dull here.”

“I forgot to sleep and –“

“I don’t know what to write.”

“John, I –“

Finally he found one piece where he could make out a few sentences of writing.

“I don’t understand what you meant by your last letter. I presume that you meant that you miss me, but I don’t think that is quite right. Do you miss me?”

John searched frantically through the scraps of ripped paper. He dug and search but nothing interesting could be found. He tossed the paper he had in his hand to the floor and sat down in his chair, staring at the mes. He looked across at Sherlock’s empty chair. The chair that would be filled as soon as he got home from where ever he was. The thought of being neat him again after over a month of letters put a strange, warm feeling in his chest.

He looked back at the chair. Sitting on the arm rest was a piece of paper. The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was laughing at his own hopefulness. He did not even know what he was looking for. He grabbed the paper and read it. As soon as he did he realized exactly what he was looking for. Three little words that meant so much more than anything Sherlock could say. The man who worked alone. The worlds only consulting detective. But somehow he had felt this. He did not just feel it, he wrote it down and tore it up. Three little word that meant the world:

“I miss you.”

John heard the door to the flat open and shut. He heard the sound of feet taking stead steps up the stairs. “John, you’re home early,” called Sherlock’s voice before he even reached the door. He entered the room with a large brown paper bag in his hands.

“Yes, Harry had to leave town early so I took the first train back to London,” John replied with a smile as he stood up. Sherlock continued to glance back at him as ha walked to the kitchen and placed the bag in the fridge. “I have the strangest feeling that those are not groceries.”

“Not unless you like to eat human bone marrow and bits of kidneys,” he answered from the kitchen. He strode back into the sitting room and glanced down at the floor for a moment. For a fraction of a second, Sherlock’s eyes widened at the sight of all the papers strewn about. “I’ll just clean this up,” he said and dove swiftly onto his knees and started to pick up the papers.

“Sherlock –”

“Just a moment, John. Can’t you see I am cleaning?” Sherlock picked up the papers faster tossed them into the trash.

John walked to where Sherlock was on the floor picking up the papers. “Sherlock, get up, it’s –”

In one swift motion Sherlock was on his feet looking at John, his mouth open trying to say something. But nothing came out. Sherlock stood there is shock as John wrapped his arms around the taller man as best he could and pulled him into a hug. Sherlock’s mouth stayed open, but he slowly lowered his arms and hugged John in return. Sherlock lowered his head slightly and placed his chin delicately on John’s shoulder.

They stayed there for a moment, neither of them speaking, in the middle of what looked like the aftermath of a paper hurricane, hugging. John finally released Sherlock, who’s mouth was still slightly open.

“Why did you hug me?” Sherlock asked.

“Because I missed you,” he answered simply.

Sherlock lifted his head slightly as if he were just understanding what he said. “Oh, very well.” He walked across the room into the kitchen and started working with his microscope.

John sighed, grabbed is case and walked towards the stairs to his room.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice called softly from the kitchen. 

“Yes, Sherlock?” 

“I missed you too,” he said and looked back into his microscope.

**Author's Note:**

> This took me too long. Why did this take me so long? Little fluff fics never take me this long. I must be getting lazy.


End file.
